In Dangerous Places
by ilysia
Summary: He'd done many stupid things in his life, but getting himself caught and imprisoned had to be in the top ten. Possibly the top five. Edmund is in a bind.


_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, alas!  
**Summary:** He'd done many stupid things in his life, but getting himself caught and imprisoned had to be in the top ten. Possibly the top five. Edmund is in a bind._

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* * *

  
**I****n Dangerous Places**_

Heavy footsteps and a snatch of muffled conversation in the corridor woke him from his uneasy sleep. Wincing against the pounding of his head, Edmund pushed himself into a sitting position against the rough wall. His back protested and his side screamed, but he was up, and felt far less vulnerable for it. In the faint light from the single window and the flickering torchlight that filtered in from the hall, he could make out the spectacular colors that were beginning to bloom on his arms.

The footsteps didn't slow as they approached and he decided, with a certain sense of satisfaction, that he wasn't going to be bothered.

"Hold up," someone in the corridor said. The footsteps paused. A face appeared in the door's barred window and frowned at him. "Might as well stick the fool in here. It'll teach him some manners, if nothing else."

"Sir, are you sure…"

" 'Course I am, Blann. Besides, less for us to do if they're in there together."

Edmund sighed in frustration and let his head drop back against the wall, instantly regretting it when the pain, which he'd managed to keep at bay for most of the day, throbbed warningly. Clenching his fists, he bit back a moan and took a deep breath. In, out. In, out…

"Oi!" The heavy door swung open and Faen, Border-Walker and current Warden of the Glasswater Outpost, stepped in. The torch he held cast his face in half-shadow, highlighting the ravages that years of soldiering and living in the wilds had bestowed upon him. Grimacing at Edmund, he jerked his head towards the corridor and said, "You're to have a companion until we can get his case settled. Now, you but think about touching a hair on his head, I'll see to it that you need not worry about your crime." He followed his unveiled threat with a grim smile, one he'd no doubt displayed to brigands hundreds of times during his career. Whatever else could be said about Faen, it could never be said that he lacked courage, or zeal, as Edmund had discovered.

"Have I given you any trouble?"

Answering the rhetorical question with a superior sniff and a grunt, Faen stepped out of the holding room and roughly shoved a man in. The newcomer staggered, cursing as he sought to regain his balance, and turned just in time to see the door close on him.

"You can't do this, Faen!" the man slurred without bothering to go to the door. The pain in Edmund's head throbbed again at the noise. "I've got- got rights, you know."

Faen's face appeared in the barred window once more. "This is the third time you've been caught thieving, Siemin. Quiet your racket and count yourself lucky we don't follow the old laws."

"Faen!" The man, Siemin, tripped his way to the door, grabbed onto the window bars almost desperately. "Faen, don't you walk away!" There was no response. "Faen!"

The door at the end of the corridor slammed and Siemin dropped his hands, giving the door a kick for good measure. "Damn him," he said, though to Edmund's surprise there was little heat behind the words. Turning, he spotted Edmund in the poor light and raised his brows. "Oh. Never had a cellmate before."

Edmund raked his eyes over the stranger, taking in his filthy clothes and the reek of horse sweat mingled with alcohol that hung about. _Men_, he snorted to himself, ignoring the irony of that thought. It had been strange these past several days being constantly surrounded by men, but then he was very far south, in Archenland almost, and that was to be expected. The Southern Outposts were the only ones whose Border-Walkers were predominantly men. Despite knowing these facts, Edmund found it deucedly strange to be surrounded by _men_ constantly- he'd gotten out of the habit, he supposed

Deciding that not only was Siemin not dangerous, but also that he was far too tired to be awake in any case, Edmund gave the man a short nod before once more carefully lowering himself onto his left side, his back to the wall. It was more out of habit than any real fear for his safety, but in a situation such as this it was far better to be cautious. After all, it was his carelessness that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. The manacles around his wrists clinked loudly as he settled himself into a less uncomfortable position. Hearing the unmistakable sound, Siemin started.

"So what'd you do, eh? Never known Faen to use the chains," he said, the open curiosity on his face visible even in the poor light, "though he's threatened to use 'em on me once or twice."

Edmund said nothing- if he kept to himself, maybe this Siemin would do the same. He wasn't exactly overeager to talk about why he was here, nor was he too keen on giving anyone the chance to identify him. He'd been lucky so far. The long hair and scraggly beard he'd so carefully cultivated before he'd left on his scouting mission had served him well- he doubted that some of his own advisors would be able to identify him instantly, and these border soldiers, none of whom he had ever met personally, certainly couldn't. Still, he wasn't taking any chances. The last thing he needed- the absolute _last_ thing- was for someone to get suspicious and start asking questions.

"Not too friendly, are we, hmmm?" Siemin slumped against the wall a few feet away; even at that distance Edmund could smell the alcohol on him. "No matter," he continued cheerfully, undeterred by Edmund's stony silence. "I can talk enough for the two of us!"

Breathing deep, Edmund closed his eyes, wishing he could do the same to his ears. It wasn't enough that he was imprisoned here, far from where he should be, and injured to boot; now he had to listen to this apparent thief ramble drunkenly in the dark. All he wanted was a bit of peace, some quiet, and a chance to think without his head feeling as though it was being torn asunder every time he moved.

"Now me," Siemin said, obviously oblivious to his cellmate's rising ire, "I'm here for horse thievery. Faen says I've been here thrice, but he hasn't caught me half the times I've liberated a nice bit of horseflesh. I don't sell 'em, you see, that's the secret. No sense in getting greedy…"

Siemin droned on, but Edmund had stopped listening within minutes. He found that Siemin's voice actually helped his headache, soothing the pain just enough to allow him to think clearly for the first time in days. Between the shock of being arrested and his injuries, both old and new, he'd had little enough opportunity of that. Now, though, the memories had the upper hand in his mind, and here in the darkness there was little he could do save to examine them closely.

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck onto his tunic. Branches caught at his hair and clothing, scraped against his face. Crouching in the brush, he consciously slowed his breathing, waiting, waiting. There.

_A man stepped out into the clearing, scanned the surrounding trees and then, satisfied that he was alone, dropped his pack. He lifted his arms above his head, stretching in the early morning sun and then, suddenly, let out a great shout of laughter. Whistling to himself, the man in the clearing bent to retrieve something from his rucksack._

_Edmund rose silently and stepped into the clearing, his face expressionless. He waited for one brief, eternal minute before the crouching man noticed him. The pleasure melted from the man's face as he straightened, his hand immediately going to his hip, searching for a weapon._

_Only there was no weapon there._

_Edmund stepped forward, unsheathing his own sword as he did so. The blade felt unusually heavy in his hand. He gripped it tighter. "Did you really think you could run and I wouldn't find you?"_

_The man sneered. "Find me to what end? It's over now, Majesty." He smiled then, unpleasantly. Edmund's stomach twisted._

"_It's not over yet." He stepped forward, raised the sword almost imperceptibly. The warm sun washed over him, flashed on the silver steel. "But it will be." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His muscles tensed as adrenaline and anticipation rushed through him, but his mind was clear, impersonal, ready._

"_And you'd finish it by finishing me, unarmed? That's not merciful, Majesty." Though his voice was mocking, his face was not. Edmund could see the panic there, could see the fear etched in every line and plane of his face. _

_In another time, another place, he might have been swayed by that blind, instinctual fear, but not here, not now. "What you have done cannot be forgiven."_

_He raised his sword, ignoring the complaints of his injured back. The man turned to run but Edmund was on him in a flash. A long dagger appeared as if by magic in the man's hand and he struck, grazing Edmund's right side just as the king's sword ended his life._

_He was dead before he hit the ground._

_Gasping at the pain, Edmund dropped to his knees next to the body. His sword fell to the ground as he sought to stem the flow of blood. Tentatively his fingers explored the gash. A long cut, shallow. If he could keep it clean, there would be no real problem._

_Grunting slightly with the effort, he managed to rip off a strip of his undertunic. There would be time later to see to the wound, time to wash it and apply a poultice. For now, the idea was to stop the bleeding. _

_Stripping off his tunic, he wound the strip of cloth tightly around his chest, tying it off as best as he was able. Though reluctant to put the bloody thing back on- it was more his blood than anyone else's, but the thought of wearing the dead man's blood still made him shudder- he didn't relish the thought of walking about shirtless._

_As he eased the shirt over his head and settled it properly, the clearing exploded with armed men._

Something touched Edmund's shoulder and he startled, struggling into a sitting position despite the pain it caused. Reaching out blindly, his hand came in contact with cloth and he grabbed it, hard, pulling his attacker in close. Though the manacles slowed his movements, the chain would work well enough to strangle the assailant if he could just get it around the throat…

"Hey! I didn't do you any harm. Let go!"

Siemin. With a sigh of mingled relief and frustration, Edmund pushed the man and eased himself against the wall, angrier with himself than with his cellmate. There was no reason on Aslan's good earth that he should have had that sort of reaction- he'd been alone too long, he decided suddenly. Alone and in dangerous places. It was time to go home.

Reaching under his tunic, he gingerly fingered the bandage over his wound, praying that his sudden movement hadn't opened it once more.

"You're a jumpy one, no doubt about it," Siemin was saying from somewhere in the darkness. "You'd think I pulled a blade on you, the way you acted."

"How was I to know you hadn't?"

A stunned silence met his question, and then Siemin chuckled. It was a warm sound, probably aided by a copious amount of drink, but Edmund was drawn to it nonetheless. It was the first bit of friendliness he'd encountered in days and he couldn't help but like it.

"You have a name?"

He considered this for a moment, wondering what name to give. There was no chance of honesty here, but he wasn't inclined to lie. It was the first question he'd been asked that he was unable to dodge, and it came from a drunken horse thief. The irony nearly killed him. A name… "No."

"What?" Siemin moved, a dark shape against an only slightly less dark background. "You haven't got a name?"

"Not one that you'll know."

"Oh, I see." Siemin snorted. "Well, you can get away with that here, but when they take you for trial, which I assume they will if they've got you chained to the wall, you'll have to say something."

"Trial?" Edmund asked, his interest and sense of self-preservation piqued. It was the first time he'd heard any mention of a trial since he'd been dragged, fighting all the way, from the clearing two days ago. He had no plans beyond surviving this imprisonment until someone came to fetch him, but a trial was a dangerous thing. A trial implied questioning, a trial implied public. And if there was one thing that Edmund would die before he let become public it was the knowledge that Narnia's sovereigns were in the habit of doing reconnaissance and scouting missions themselves.

"Oh, aye," Siemin said, sounding pleased that there was something he knew that his close-mouthed companion didn't. "You'll be sent to Cair Paravel, stand trial before a judge. Or so I've been told."

Cair Paravel. They would take _him_ to Cair Paravel to stand trial there. Before a judge… and he bet himself that he could, within one guess, pick whom that judge was supposed to be.

"When?" he asked, surprised by how calm his voice sounded when in reality he'd scarce felt such urgency. "When will they take me to Cair Paravel?"

"Oh, I'd say no sooner than a fortnight. You're not that important."

Edmund nearly cried aloud. _A fortnight_. He couldn't be missing for that long- a few days more would be acceptable, but a fortnight: never. The last thing they needed was for word to get out that one of Narnia's kings was missing.

"So, you want to tell me what this great crime you committed was? You're awfully eager for this trial- you're claiming to be innocent, I take it?"

Edmund closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands. The manacles clinked. He'd done many stupid things in his life, but getting himself caught and imprisoned had to be in the top ten. Possibly the top five.

"Oi! Answer my question, for once."

"No," Edmund snapped suddenly, dropping his hands and glaring in the direction of the voice.

"No, what?"

"I'm not claiming innocence."

"Humph. And the crime, then? What did you do, kiss Faen's sweetheart?"

"I killed a man."

Stunned silence met this announcement as the enormity of his situation his Siemin. Edmund could almost hear his thought process, could almost feel the horse thief's alarm at suddenly discovering that Faen, his rival, had locked him up with a murderer. It was a curious sensation, this business of inspiring fear. Edmund had known something like it before, but then it had always been fear inspired by a superior army; fear inspired by the knowledge that Narnia's kings were determined, and loved, and devoted. That feeling was nothing like this appalling terror that suddenly filled the cell.

It nearly made him sick, to think that his simple admission, _I killed a man_, could inspire this.

He heard shuffling and guessed that Siemin was getting as far as he could from the self-confessed murderer (_but not murder_, a small voice whispered). Edmund didn't bother trying to defend himself. There was nothing he could say, now, that would convince any of the men here- not Siemin, not Faen- that his crime had not been exactly what it appeared to be. He had seen the condemnation in the soldiers' eyes the minute he had been set upon in the clearing, seen their disgust at the sight of him covered in blood and kneeling next to the unarmed body of the man whose life he had taken.

Had they done anything other than lock him up he would have protested his innocence, and violently, but they had followed the law- the law Edmund himself had written- and simply imprisoned him, albeit none too gently. That he was here now experiencing his own law from the other side was... well. It made him want to laugh and shout at the same time for the pure tragic absurdity of it.

"What did he do?" Siemin whispered from across the cell, his voice flat.

Edmund couldn't tell if it was curiosity or fear or some perverse sense of compulsion that made Siemin ask a question that he so obviously dreaded. Whatever it was, he was too tired to care. He was hurt, he was exhausted, he was worried and, worst of all, perhaps, his manacles were beginning to bring up memories of the last time he had been imprisoned, memories that he could very well do without. Shivering slightly and shaking his throbbing head to force out flashes of ice and snow, he replied, "That's none of your affair. You're neither my king nor Aslan, and I see no need to confess to you."

Siemin didn't press him, and Edmund suspected that he was glad of the chance to ignore his murderer of a cellmate with impunity.

Long after the horse thief had fallen asleep, his breathing deep and even, Edmund was awake battling long buried memories.

* * *

The key rattled in the lock and Edmund lurched into consciousness, immediately regretting it. His head throbbed even worse than before and the wound in his side sent sharp lances of pain through him with every breath he took. Falling asleep propped against the wall had been, he admitted to himself, quite a stupid thing to do, given the circumstances.

Blinking away the haze his uneasy sleep had left in his eyes, he stared around the cell, desperate to get his bearings before the door opened and he was forced to deal with a new factor. Siemin lay curled up in one of the far corners, his head pillowed on one arm. Seeing his face, Edmund smiled a bit; the self-proclaimed horse thief, judging by his expression, was going to wake with a monster of a hangover.

His observations were interrupted by the click of the lock and the loud creak as the door swung open. Faen stood in the doorway, managing to look surprisingly intimidating despite the fact that he was a small man. He cast Edmund a haughty glare, shaking his head in disgust as he swept his eyes over his prisoner.

"You're wanted."

Edmund raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

"Don't be smart, I'm warning you." Faen approached, stood over Edmund, scowling all the while. Finally, with a look that indicated he'd rather single-handedly face a Dragon than do whatever it was he was being ordered to do, he sighed heavily, pulled a single key from the small ring at his belt and unlocked the manacles.

One, two; they fell away and Edmund felt suddenly better, honestly smiling for the first time in three days. Faen, catching his relief, said, "Don't get too comfortable."

And then, to his dismay but not his surprise, there was another set of manacles that were closed about his wrists.

"Come on."

Edmund stood quickly and instantly realized it for the mistake it was. The room spun, his head throbbed warningly and every bruise and cut on him suddenly conspired to bring him down. He staggered, gasping, against the wall that had been his constant support of three days now and pressed his forehead against it. Deep breaths- one, two, one two- until the room righted itself and the nausea passed. Faen stood unimpressed, waiting for his prisoner to collect himself.

With one final, deep breath and a whispered thanks to the wall, Edmund pushed off his support and shakily followed his jailer.

As they silently traversed the corridor, Edmund looked about in interest. He'd been dragged down this same corridor only a few days ago, but he didn't remember it in any detail. Now he was able to see that he holding cell was near the storeroom, at the back of the outpost. If that was true, which he knew it to be, it meant that Faen was taking him to the barracks, or the Warden's council room. _Used for planning expeditions and reconnaissance_, Edmund's brain supplied helpfully. _Also for interrogation._

He desperately hoped there would be no questioning involved in whatever Faen was so unhappy about. He didn't feel quite up to interrogation today, or any other day, really.

"Right," Faen ground out, stopping suddenly before the closed door leading to the council room and the pair of Fauns that flanked it. Turning on Edmund, he said, "You're to be polite, respectful. You're to answer any questions put to you truthfully and quickly. I've no idea why His Majesty wants you, but you're to behave as a loyal subject, if a murderer such as yourself knows how."

Edmund heard nothing beyond the words _His Majesty_. Oh, Aslan, if this meant what he thought it did…

"The king wishes to see me?"

"One of them, yes," the Warden said reluctantly.

"Then you'll want to remove these manacles." Edmund thrust his wrists forward and the heavy links clanked obligingly. Great Aslan, if Peter saw him in chains, he couldn't be sure what would happen.

"Right. As though I'd let a murderer see my King without so much as a pair of manacles." Faen reached out and pulled Edmund closer; so close that Edmund could a small muscle beneath the Warden's eye flicker in irritation. "If it were my choice, you wouldn't get within a mile of King Peter, but he's requested to see you. So hear me now- if you touch so much as a hair on the High King's head, you won't live to regret it."

With a skillful twist, Edmund extricated himself from the tight grip and slipped away. "The High King is perfectly safe with me," he said flatly. _He is safer with me than he is with anyone else in this world_.

Faen snorted. Edmund sighed. The Faun guards shifted slightly.

With a snort of derision, the Warden grabbed Edmund's shoulder, pulling him forward by his tunic. One of the Fauns stepped forward and looked between prisoner and jailer. Edmund ducked his head.

"This is the one, Sir?"

"Aye." Faen shook him roughly. "This is the one the High King asked for, though I can't imagine why his Majesty would want to concern himself with the likes of this murderer."

"Sir, it's the High King's business which prisoners he speaks to, and why."

"Aye."

"Very good, sir."

At a curt nod from his fellow, the other Faun swung the door open and stepped to the side, indicating that Faen and his prisoner should step through.

Edmund closed his eyes and they passed over the threshold, both dreading and longing for the conversation he knew was about to take place. If only he weren't so tired; if the overwhelming exhaustion would only fade away and he could have so time to think, some time to prepare; if he could only have a few minutes so that Peter would not have to see him looking quite this bad; if he'd only had his wounds seen to before Peter would find them and…

Faen stopped abruptly, jerking his prisoner to a halt as he did so. Edmund's eyes flew open as he staggered, surprised by his sudden lack of forward momentum. A wave of nausea washed over him and he swayed for a moment before regaining his balance. Perfect- he didn't even want to know what Peter thought of that little episode. He didn't want to know, but he knew he was sure to find out regardless.

"Your Majesty."

The Warden bowed, his hand still on Edmund's shoulder, and forced Edmund down with him. He fought another wave of nausea as he rose. His eyed traveled over the room, hard-learned habits driving him to study the layout in case of an attack. Barred windows, table, two chairs (one occupied), a king armed with a sword and a long dagger and (though Edmund could not see it he knew it was there) a short knife in the left boot.

And then he met Peter's eyes.

It took less than a fraction of a second for Peter to understand; indeed, Edmund thought his brother probably already knew, if not by instinct than by his gait and the way he bowed. But knowing and _knowing_ were two different things entirely, and he could see Peter visibly tense and begin a quick once over, the same as was given to soldiers after a battle when there was no healer to be had.

Edmund almost laughed at how well he could read Peter. He knew by the clenching of his brother's jaw that he'd noticed the manacles; by the flaring of the nostrils that he was extremely unhappy about the difficulties Edmund was having with balance; by the sudden angry blink that he'd discovered the telltale bulge beneath his tunic. These emotions flickered across the High King's face in the blink of an eye, but Edmund had been playing the wicked game of politics with his brother for far too long not to understand him.

Finally, and with a strength of will equal to that which he showed in battle, Peter wrenched his eyes away from Edmund to give Faen a brief nod. "Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all."

Edmund could hear the angry dismissal in the words, and hoped for the Warden's sake that he could as well. Apparently, though, that hope was ill founded.

"Are you certain, your Majesty?" Faen stiffened and shifted uncomfortably. "I'm charged with your protection and this man's a killer, a murderer. Perhaps-"

"Enough." Peter's eyes flashed. "You are charged with following my orders, Lieutenant, not with questioning them. If you think me so incapable as to be unable to deal with one unarmed man then I suggest that you take your services elsewhere."

"Your- your Majesty, I didn't mean to suggest-"

"Of course not. That will be all."

"Majesty."

Finally relinquishing his hold on Edmund's shoulder, the Warden bowed again and, turning, nearly fled from the room. The door closed with a neat click and they were alone.

Neither moved for a moment, though it was all Edmund could do to keep from collapsing where he stood. He shouldn't have let the cut go for so long, he now knew, and his other, older injuries were not healing as well as they should.

Peter rose silently and went to the door, pressed his ear to it, listened. After a moment he pulled back and nodded. "It's clear."

"Oh, thank Aslan," Edmund whispered as he stepped forward and promptly collapsed into a chair. He raised shaking hands to his face and breathed deeply, trying to give his scattered thoughts time to collect themselves. He wanted to let Peter help him, wanted to leave this place, but there was something that had to be done first.

"Ed…"

"Please, you need to debrief me." His voice came out steadier than he'd thought it would, and he thanked Aslan for that, too.

"Now? Can't it wait?"

"No. Peter, please."

"I…" Peter sighed. "Fine."

To Edmund's relief, Peter sank into the chair on the opposite side of the table. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table, and said, "Make it quick. I want to get you out of here."

With a small nod, Edmund straightened and placed his own manacled hands flat on the smooth tabletop, trying not to notice the way Peter flinched when they rattled. "He's dead."

"And you're certain of this?"

Edmund let a small smile slip across his face. The question, like so many, was almost a game between the two of them. _'You're certain?' 'Well, no, not really, but I'll go infiltrate the enemy camp and count them myself, if you wish.'_ Now, though, there was no glib answer, no humor to take away the sting. "I killed him myself, three days ago, in a clearing not two miles from here. The body they buried, I hope. Everything else should still be here."

"So you were right," Peter said quietly, a note of grim determination in his voice.

Edmund nodded. He wished he hadn't been, wished he'd been completely wrong, wished they were at the Cair, laughing about his suspicions. "He had them on him- plans, blueprints, correspondences. He planned on selling it to someone in Calormen, I'm sure."

"How long?"

"It took me a fortnight to find him once I was in the camp." Edmund shrugged as he did a quick mental calculation. "I tracked him for a week before I confronted him." He shot Peter a bleak look. "I let him slip away one day- he never should have gotten this far. I should have taken him at Beruna, but…" But he had been near to complete exhaustion even then, and his wound from the recent battle had torn open under the strain and… "I'm sorry."

"Don't," Peter said warningly. From his voice Edmund knew that the High King had officially ended the debriefing. "No one else could have done what you have accomplished."

"I trusted him," Edmund said weakly.

"I know."

And Peter did know; knew how hard it had been for Edmund to voice his suspicions that the man had been the cause behind their recent grievous loss of the Northwestern Border Company; knew how long it had taken Edmund to infiltrate so that he could see the way of things for himself; knew, even, how much it had cost Edmund to track and kill the man he'd trusted, the man he'd called a friend, the man who had betrayed them.

He sighed and Peter was suddenly at his side; he'd not even seen his brother rise, though he attributed that to his exhaustion. Peter gave Edmund a long, level look and then his arms were around him, pulling him close even as he stiffened slightly, unconsciously, at his brother's touch. If Peter noticed (and Edmund knew he must have), he didn't react but only held on until Edmund's tense muscles relaxed and he allowed his head to rest on his brother's shoulder.

The tunic smelled of horses and leather and pine, a scent that so undeniably belonged to his brother that Edmund couldn't help but smile into the soft linen. It had been too long since he'd seen his brother, too long since he'd been himself. A month in dangerous places was too long, far too long.

"Thank Aslan I found you," Peter said, his voice quiet. "I don't know what we would have done…"

He trailed off and Edmund found himself filling in the blanks. _… if we hadn't found you, if you'd disappeared, if you'd died… _There was so much let unsaid, because what could Peter say? He'd taken a horrible risk, but a risk that had to be taken, one that he would take again and again, for Narnia's sake. For Peter's sake.

Extricating himself gently from his brother's embrace, Edmund asked, "What have you been telling people?" Because he knew they must have asked. A king doesn't simply disappear form public life for a month without there being questions involved.

Peter sighed, and Edmund could hear the frustration and worry the sound refused to voice. "We've had it circulated that you've been fighting a fever. Nothing serious, but we don't wish to risk the possibility of it worsening into something deadly…" Peter shot him an amused look and added, "Half the Calormene lords are convinced I've had you assassinated." The amusement faded. "We are never doing this again. _You_ are never doing this again."

"Until the next time."

He received a grunt in response but no refutation. And what could Peter say? They both knew that something like this would happen again, some new crisis, some unstoppable disaster. And that day would find them in this exact situation; far from home, far from help, saving their kingdom by throwing themselves recklessly into peril.

But that time hadn't yet come, and for now it was enough that Peter was here, enough that his brother- his maddening, mothering, overbearing, _beloved_ brother- had come to save him when he could not save himself. It was an old thing by now, the constant give and take of rescue and sacrifice and devotion, but every time it occurred the wonder of it was renewed in Edmund, the wonder of loving, and being loved, so completely by one whom he had been blessed to have as a brother.

A gentle hand on his shoulder let him know that his attention had wandered and he raised his eyes to greet Peter with a small smile.

"I said, 'how badly injured are you this time?'." Try as he might, even Peter couldn't keep the exasperation and amusement out of his voice. Edmund wondered why he even bothered.

"Nothing serious…" The incredibly disbelieving look that Peter achieved let him know that that tactic wasn't going to work, so rather than argue he hastily tacked on, "if they hadn't gotten infected, that is."

"So you mean to tell me that you were held in a Narnian Outpost for _three days_ while your injuries- injuries you received fighting for your people, I might add- festered?"

Blue eyes flashed dangerously and Edmund had a sudden vision of Faen in a pillory somewhere. "If I'd told them, they would have seen to them. It was my choice, Peter. I couldn't risk being recognized."

Peter flinched. Edmund bit his lip and let his eyes wander to the window. The whisper, when it came, was agonizingly flat.

"What if you'd died?"

He hated the answer he had to give, hated the words that had to come out of his mouth. But Peter needed to hear them, and so did he. "Would that really have been the worst that could have happened?"

The answer, though neither would dare to say it, was 'no'. No, death was not the worst. Death was only the worst option when they were brothers. But 'recognition, capture'- there were words to send terror into the hearts of kings, the hearts of those who led Narnia and protected her and…

And then Peter's arm was around him again, and when Edmund looked at his brother he could see only relief and joy and none of the pain that had been there only seconds ago. These dark things they both knew. But for now they need not dwell on them.

"Come, brother," Peter said, weariness and relief and love mingling together to achieve the tone that only Peter could produce. "It's time to go home."


End file.
